Pools and Puppets
by Captain Rilee
Summary: "Sherlock was off the edge of the map. He had been blinded, thrilled by the promise of a challenge, an equitable adversary, something new—but he had neglected to recall the antiquated warning: Here there be monsters." Sherlock's perspective of the pool in Season 1. (genderbent femlock Joanna Watson at your service)


ArtsyChic is the best 3 The best Beta EVA! GattisMoffatDoyle get the spoils, I just get to toy with them as I see fit.

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In the back of a London cab on a truly unforgiving, cold winter's night, Sherlock settled into his seat with a hum of satisfaction.

Satisfied.

Jo would say he was being "smug and ridiculous," but the urge was difficult to resist when so tempting and brilliant a puzzle was effectively served to him on a platter—or a pink phone. That fifth pip was nigh irresistible… and yet the bomber remained stubbornly silent. Sherlock grew impatient and he held a rather fantastic trump card.

The Bruce Partington Plans. They served the dual purpose of inciting a villain and provoking his brother. Or perhaps it was the other way around?

Regardless, the wheels were in motion—the drive was in his pocket, and Jo was conveniently distracted, tucked away at Dr. Sawyer's flat—leaving Sherlock to a delightfully thrilling exchange with the amorphous voice. Jo would be cross at being left behind, but Sean would keep her occupied for the moment.

Sherlock gave a small huff of annoyance at the thought of the auburn-haired doctor who was rather too obvious for the likes of Jo. She needed some kind of occupation, this he understood. An income, _absolutely_, but Sherlock seriously doubted the banality would suit her and finding it in both her office and her relationship would drive her mad.

The silly ginger had called their work "puzzles," for God's sake!

But no matter; Sherlock had a criminal to apprehend that was proving far cleverer than anything he had encountered before. Something new. He grinned shamelessly at the thought, basking in it, and although there was no one around to admonish him for it, he could almost hear Jo's sigh of disapproval. He turned his thoughts instead toward the coming meeting and his smile disappeared.

The cab was quickly approaching the pool, the place that had started Sherlock Holmes on his deductive career. Oh, this was going to be interesting.

Sherlock zeroed in on the individual he was about to meet. How might this phantom puppeteer react? They'd been rather civil thus far—barring the deaths—though the flirting was mildly tedious. No doubt the effusiveness would carry over to the delivery of the memory stick.

He felt a pang at that. Jo would be so disappointed that he lied to her. He said the stick was delivered to the authorities (i.e. Mycroft), yet here he sat with the drive in his pocket, well on his way to a date with a criminal with an affinity for explosive drama.

He furiously pushed the thought away. Jo—even in absence—was absolutely forbidden to ruin his sport.

The cab pulled to a stop and Sherlock dispatched the driver with his pay. The detective examined the dark building, buttoning his coat with deft fingers as he approached the doors. He made quick work of the laughably cheap lock and forced his way inside. He was keen, and his pulse was trilling his delight. He removed his coat in the changing rooms and hung it neatly on one of the locker hooks. The tension, the anticipation—oh, it was delicious.

He stepped out onto the pool deck and called out his greeting: "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present." He continued talking, baiting his opponent, testing patience—a dangerous line to walk with a bomber. "All to distract me from _this_."

That was until the unthinkable happened. There was a squeak and a thud of a door swinging on protesting hinges and a figure stepped out of the stalls. Sherlock turned, smirking—only to freeze at the sight of his flatmate (_[hideous] green parka:_ not hers).

His brain abruptly conducted a hard reset. "Jo—what the _hell_?"

The Venn diagram of Moriarty and Joanna—the only overlap being Sherlock himself—suddenly transformed into a hideous circle that left his lungs empty and his stomach knotted in rebellion.

_No—it was impossible. _

But it certainly was not. (_Marksman_: a sniper. _Acclimatized to violence_: capable of violence. _Afghanistan_: familiar with explosives. _Motive_: unknown. _Opportunity_: capable of orchestrating a network right under his nose for the past—)

Finally his mind kickstarted again. No. It was a logistical impossibility. Not when they lived together, arguing over tea and bullet holes and crap telly and probably shaving years off of Mrs. Hudson's life with their racket, trying her patience at all hours, laughing—_giggling_—at crime scenes, at restaurants, at home in Baker Street. No. It was impossible. So the next most likely explanation was—

Yes. There, her eyes—her bright blue eyes shining with smothered fear—blinking _SOS_.

Here, just as he thought, was the fifth pip: a hostage, Sherlock's hostage, close to home to throw him off. The bomber had been escalating with his last two victims—an elderly, blind woman, then a child—and Sherlock could have predicted _this_ if he hadn't been so self indulgent and damnably stupid.

Then Jo's hands shifted, brushing aside the folds of the coat to reveal the explosive, familiar danger strapped to her chest, the red light of an unseen sniper trailing over her. Wires and lights twisted like veins across her collar and torso and it was all. his. fault.

Then the far door burst open to a victorious singing voice that had the audacity to tease him. Five minutes ago he had expected the anticipation to dissolve into that thrilling vitality of genius that he craved and chased in all his cases.

But now all he could taste was the cold, marrow-freezing bite of fury.

Sherlock was off the edge of the map. He had been blinded, thrilled by the promise of a challenge, an equitable adversary, something new—but he had neglected to recall the antiquated warning: _Here there be monsters_…

There were many factors at play and Sherlock knew them all, playing them like a statistician in his head. But this Jim—_Moriarty—_was an unknown variable that threw everything out of sorts like a wrench in a machine.

The only thing that Sherlock knew, with any degree of certainty, (_When:_ shortly. _How:_ imaginatively. _Where:_ irrelevant. _Why:_ audacity.) was that he, Sherlock Holmes, would deliver to one Jim Moriarty a most permanent and fatal goodbye.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours."

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Thank you for joining me on this adventure. Please click below if you'd like to hear more. I'm a vain, insecure creature and ADORE reviews of all kinds...however, flames will be doused with retardant.


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